


Hunted Down

by Garrae



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Romance, Warlocks, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: "Hallowe'en was not a time for stupid masks, costumes, parties, fake fears, or candies. It was not even a time for the much older tradition of Guising, brought from Scotland hundreds of years ago, which seemed to have dissolved in the pathetic little trail of Trick or Treating. Hallowe'en was nothing but a bad joke..."CastleHalloweenBash2020
Relationships: Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to Fanfiction.net

Kate Beckett disliked Hallowe’en. Well. Disliked was possibly a touch…weak. She loathed Hallowe’en with all the hatred that her blazing personality could emit, which, on a scale of forces, was approximately equivalent to every star in the entire Horsehead Nebula going supernova all at once. Every aspect of Hallowe’en as practised by the whole of Manhattan, and _especially_ as practised by her infuriating, annoying, _superstitious_ shadow, was a screech of fingernails down the chalkboard of her abraded soul.

Hallowe’en was not a time for stupid masks, costumes, parties, fake fears, or candies. It was not even a time for the much older tradition of Guising, brought from Scotland hundreds of years ago, which seemed to have dissolved in the pathetic little trail of Trick or Treating. Hallowe’en was nothing but a bad joke played on credulous dumbasses such as the three idiots presently circulating around her murder board.

She ignored their enthusiastic discussion of the party Castle intended to throw, their costumes, and the arrangements for supposedly spooky food and drink.

“Beckett!”

Oh. While she’d been thinking about important things, such as catching their killer, Castle had been trying to get her attention.

“What?” she snapped. “Is this about the case? If not, I’m not interested.”

“How can you not be interested in Hallowe’en? It’s got everything. Spooky stories, costumes, legends, ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggety beasties… You have to appreciate it.”

“It’s got dumbassed, dumbed-down trick or treating for children. That’s not spooky, it’s just pathetic for grown adults.”

Castle pouted. “My parties are not pathetic. My parties are _scary_ , and everyone likes them.”

“Except me.”

“You don’t like anything that might be fun.”

“Fun is over-rated.”

Castle waggled his eyebrows. “Not with me,” he oozed. “I could provide you with lots of fun.” His eyes widened. “I bet there’s a Hallowe’en potion to change fun sponges like you into the life and soul of the party.”

“Not going to happen. And I am _not_ a fun sponge, either. If I came along to your party and was dismal, that would be a fun sponge. Since I’m not coming, I won’t be. I’ll be perfectly happy without the party. Hallowe’en is just another Hallmark invention that bears no relation _at all_ to its real meaning. It’s as bad as Christmas.”

“Real meaning?” Castle pounced upon her words.

 _Oh, shit_ , Beckett thought. When he was being annoying, she always went one step further than she should and he _always_ picked up on the one point she didn’t want him to notice. Hell.

“All Hallows’ Eve. A day when you should remember the dead, and mourn.” She carefully didn’t specify what should be mourned. That…would definitely invite questions that she really didn’t want to answer. “A day when the barrier between the world of the living and the supernatural is thinner and you should be _scared_ of what might arrive. Not dumb costumes and annoying kids. _Real_ scary stuff, that could kill you.” She stopped. Castle’s eyes had widened. “That’s what it used to mean. Of course, none of that’s true,” she lied.

She knew that all of it was true. She watched it, each Hallowe’en.

Witches did.

It was the only time she let her powers out to play, to see the hidden world come alive, for just one fearsome night, and join it: open herself up to her other life. All the rest of the time, her other senses stayed largely locked down, for fear she might use them for untoward purposes. She could have forced confessions – but then, how would she ever know if it were the truth, or terror talking? Mental torture was as wrong as physical, and as likely to give the wrong result. Everyone had something to hide, and everyone’s aura was smudged and smeared. She’d stopped looking very soon after joining the Academy. She didn’t need to know just how smudged and smeared people were. What mattered was what they _did_ , not so much what they thought.

And anyway, she’d never seen another witch or warlock in all her time before the Academy, so she’d rather begun to think that there weren’t any here in Manhattan – or anywhere else, for that matter. A rogue gene, she supposed. It was probably a good thing.

Anyway, if she once started using her powers, she’d probably use them to put a _Silence_ geas on Castle, and that… well, it would be misuse. Wonderful, just to shut him up, but misuse. She was a good person. She was. She just couldn’t bear all the idiotic cartoon _crap_ around Hallowe’en.

A faint thin tendril tugged at her attention, but she ignored it. Around this time, there were often faint thin tuggings on her supernatural side. She ignored them every year. Just like she ignored the temptation to peer at Castle’s aura. She knew what it would be like, anyway. Sparkly, sequined rainbows with a fractal fizzle-pop at the edges. Ugh. How could anyone be so relentlessly cheerful and optimistic and still be allowed to be alive?

She humphed, and glared at the murder board, which looked blandly back at her and didn’t provide anything useful.

“If it bursts into flames you’ll be cross,” Castle said, “though it would be really cool if you were a pyromancer.”

“If I were a pyromancer – which doesn’t exist, just like all the other supernatural nonsense you believe in doesn’t exist – you’d be a small pile of ashes on the floor, with the added benefit that you wouldn’t _talk_.”

“Mean. Anyway, you wouldn’t do that to me. You’d recognise my essential hotness” – Beckett blew a rude raspberry at him – “and succumb to my charm.”

“What charm?” Charms were another piece of superstitious nonsense. She didn’t need charms, just her formidable will. And that was another thing she shouldn’t do. But she wanted to. A nice repulsion to keep him from getting too close. She wasn’t at all sure that she could keep her composure – that was, resist seeing his aura – if he came much closer. Still…she daydreamed of something minorly repulsive, such as swarms of invisible small biting flying things, or an imaginary hair shirt, or…well, a ring of mildly stinging nettles, maybe?

She forced her brain back to the case.

“Anyway, you don’t have to come to my party, so you can stop glaring at me. I don’t want anyone there who wouldn’t enjoy it.” He smiled sweetly. “You can think of something you’ll enjoy instead and we’ll do that.”

“ _We_? _We_ won’t be doing anything together. There is no _we_.”

“Now you’re just being contrary. We solve crimes. We’re partners.”

“You are,” Ryan chimed in. Beckett flattened him with a world-shattering glare. “You are,” he bounced back. “He’s worked with you longer than anyone but us. He must be your partner” – he fled, recognising the imminent explosion.

“See?” Castle said insouciantly. “Even the boys agree. We’re a _we_. Not a wee, which is for small Scottish children” –

“Shut up!” Castle, not being entirely suicidal, did.

Beckett rammed down the scalding desire to turn him into a frog and boil him to soup. She didn’t have a cauldron big enough for a six-foot-two frog – she didn’t have a cauldron at all. Right now, she regretted that. Deeply.

“Are we going to solve this murder or not?” she snapped.

“See, you said _we_! – shutting up _right now_.”

Beckett went home at the end of the day in a foul – fouler – temper. Pre Hallowe’en Syndrome was a dreadful affliction, and the damned tuggings by the damned tendrils of supernaturality were driving her insane. Well, actually, it drove her to the vodka and ice cream stores in her freezer, which were slightly less permanent and tasted better.

Unfortunately, the vodka also lowered her inbuilt inhibitions. She relaxed into her couch, dimmed the lighting, and dropped her barriers. Her mind whispered out above the city, sampling the late-October chill, breezing through the night, skimming past the miasma of urban auras –

Hang on. That was odd. She pulled her mind back to the stab of silver in the murky night, but it had gone.

***

Sipping a Scotch in the comfort of his loft, Castle was idly pondering Beckett’s total hatred of Hallowe’en, and deciding that it probably went along with her total hatred of all other holidays or occasions when she might be expected to have fun.

He took another sip, and, since he was alone in the study, opened up his perceptions – and shut them straight back down again. Someone was prowling through the New York ether, and they’d almost spotted him. He thought that New York was completely clear of…others like him. In fact, he’d tried to make sure of it. He certainly didn’t want discovered, and in his wild and stormy twenties, he’d done enough enhancing of his natural wit and charm to ensure that anyone else like him would have denounced his attractiveness as a fraud. His writing talent was his own. Getting it recognised…had taken a little more effort.

He didn’t do that now. He hadn’t done it since he’d fallen in love with his first wife, high on success and sure that she’d love him back. She hadn’t, and he’d had too much pride – too much honesty – to try to charm her. He could get agents, PR, book deals – but he wouldn’t cheat to be loved.

Sometimes, buzzing around the bullpen, he wished he could. Just a little bit of charm, to warm her up. But it wouldn’t last. He’d have to do it on his own natural – not supernatural – ability, which so far was having as much effect as a bikini at the South Pole. Though he could dream for _days_ about Beckett in a bikini…

Tentatively, he unfolded the wings of his _other_ talent, and began to skulk through the city, hoping to pick up a trace of the stranger, so that he could avoid them. He searched for half the night, under the lowering sky and the sulking clouds, the sodium glow of streetlamps and the dim lights in apartments; the thin feel of the minds around him; the cloaking, almost-suffocating hive mind of the city as those same minds merged together into one. Nothing appeared, and as the small hours became the early hours, he gave up.

He dreamed of Beckett, which was nothing new, and woke with the biting temptation to take a look at her aura. He thought he knew what it would look like: sure that it would be dark and knotted, close-confined and focused; a clean, pure dark, though, to reflect her dedication to her job. Peeking, though, would be wrong.

The closer Hallowe’en came, the more he had to remind himself of that. Pre Hallowe’en Syndrome was a bitch. At least his party would be on a Friday, not the day itself – everyone had parties on the day, so he’d used that as an excuse.

***

By October 30, a Friday, and the date of Castle’s party, Beckett was thoroughly cross. Sure, they’d solved the murder, but she’d gone out to stalk the mysterious aura every night and hadn’t seen a thing. If there were any other…unusual…people in her city, she wanted to know about them.

But right now, she was at maximum irritation level because she’d agreed – under considerable and prolonged protest – to show her face at Castle’s party. At least it was tonight. Tomorrow, she had another appointment: never in the same place as the previous year; always somewhere she could be her whole, true self, for one night. This year, she’d go to the Trinity Church Cemetery and Mausoleum, way up in Washington Heights.

She dressed in formal black – black dress, black underwear, black stockings, black high heels, black coat. Crimson lipstick accentuated her full lips, heavy black mascara and liner her eyes, black pearl earrings her lobes, but her constant chain and ring at her neck. No rings, no watch: her elegant hands entirely unadorned; nails unpolished. A dry run for the next night, she thought, when she’d be alone.

She waited until she’d be lost in the crowd, rather than the full focus of Castle’s attention, and rang his doorbell at a point where the party – from the noise coming through the walls – was jumping. Alexis opened the door, but before Beckett could say anything, she shrieked in a pitch that would pierce concrete, “Dad! Detective Beckett’s here!” which was not _at all_ what Beckett wanted.

“You came!” Castle bounced. “I really thought you weren’t going to come. Have a drink. What would you like? We’ve got punch and Hallowe’en potions and” –

“Wine, please.”

“Red, white?”

“White, thank you.”

Castle looked quite depressed at the simplicity of her request. “Lemme take your coat – ohhhhhh,” he breathed, as he slipped it from her shoulders. “You look fabulous. Totally what the well-dressed scary person would wear.” His eyes blazed hotly, and he stood stock still, surveying.

“Wine, please?” Beckett reminded him.

“Oh, yes, sure.” Castle wandered off to hang up her coat and, hopefully, supply wine.

As she merged into the crowd, Beckett’s over-sensitised talent felt an odd, tiny tug again. She shrugged it off. With less than twelve hours till the day itself, odd tuggings were nothing unexpected. She felt it again: this time a little less of a tug, a little more, well, almost an enticement, or a stroke. She ignored it. Tomorrow would be soon enough to be herself.

“Here you are,” Castle announced from behind her, as she stared out at the cloudy night. “Don’t you want to socialise?”

That would be _no_ , but she supposed she ought to, for long enough to be registered, and then she could quietly sneak away and home. “Thank you,” she said, instead of _leave me alone_.

Castle grinned at her. “If you don’t want to be sociable, you can sneak into my study and hide. Of course, I’ll need to come and check you’re okay every so often, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

“I don’t hide,” Beckett snipped.

“Nope, but you don’t exactly look happy to be here.”

“I’m fine,” she lied. She didn’t want to be here, but…she also didn’t want to answer the inevitable questions from Lanie about why she didn’t show up. And oh, joy, there was the woman herself, dressed as Catwoman and attracting a lot of attention, chiefly directed between Lanie’s shoulders and waist.

“Kate!” Lanie looked her up and down. “Auditioning for Morticia, are we?”

“Morticia was so sexy,” Castle mused.

“Are you saying Kate isn’t?” Lanie jabbed.

“Uh…” Castle suddenly realised that there was no answer here that wouldn’t get him into trouble, and doubled down on the trouble quotient. “Beckett is always totally sexy.” His face said _she can sex me up any time_. His eyes wandered up and down her figure.

“You can stop with the love eyeballs,” Lanie said cynically. “I’m ready to vomit from sugar overload already.”

“Love eyeballs?” said Beckett and Castle in perfect synchronisation. One used a tone of complete horror, one of definite hope.

“Yup. Just admit it already and go do something about it.”

“Lanie!” Beckett yelped.

“I would,” Castle oozed, “but the lady won’t play.”

“Not helping, Castle.”

“I’m not asking you to help, but you could play…” he tried.

Beckett glared, and then stalked off with her wine and very definitely without Lanie or Castle. Her expression cleared a path to the kitchen, where there was…

Well. She supposed it had to be edible food, but Castle’s penchant for overdoing things had clearly extended to a menu that appeared to include eye of newt and toe of frog, not to mention wool of bat and tongue of dog. Ugh. She didn’t allow any of that to figure in _her_ cooking, witch or not. She preferred pizza. Tentatively, she tried something that looked a bit like a chicken wing, and found that it was. She swiped a few, and slid off to find a quiet corner in which to eat them.

Quiet corners were in very short supply, and the one that did seem to be present was occupied by two people who were very much occupied by each other. One of them might have been Martha. Beckett passed on, rapidly, and came to the door of Castle’s study. She didn’t hesitate before sidling through the door.

Of course she’d been in his study before, but…never on her own. She put the plate of wings and her glass of wine down on a handy magazine, so as not to get the desk dirty or watermarked, and indulged her normally well-controlled curiosity in a thorough investigation of the items out in the open. That done, she ate the wings, wiped her fingers on her napkin, snuggled into the couch and sipped her wine, insensibly easing.

Wine and easing, in the peaceful dark of the study – she’d switched the light off to avoid discovery, as she could see perfectly well in the dark – left her wide open to the tugging of another supernatural tendril. She closed off any possibility of a response, but the tugs – again – turned to stroking, and then to gentle petting. She let herself enjoy it.

***

Castle had noticed Beckett disappear into his study, but decided that discretion was the better route to staying alive, and left her to it. He had a slightly different plan in mind for the next little while, in any case. He opened his mind a little further, and skimmed the loft. Nothing triggered his senses.

He smiled rakishly. Right. Since there was nobody likely to notice, he could have just a little moment of pleasure. He extended a sense, located Beckett with ease, and stroked her hair delicately. It felt so _good_ , and even better, Beckett was humming softly with delight. He continued to pet her hair and shoulders, never trying anything more, until, with considerable disappointment, he thought he ought to stop – before he barged into his study and kissed her instead. He pulled himself away, but listened for a second, deeply gratified by her tiny, disappointed sigh. Of course, she wouldn’t ever know why she’d been so comfortable for a few moments, but… virtue was its own reward, or something.

He returned his full attention to the party, and enjoyed himself wholly and sincerely all evening, especially as Beckett did spend some time in the party and even managed moderate enjoyment and a smile.

“Night, Castle,” Beckett said. “Can I have my coat, please?”

“You don’t have to go,” he suggested. “Stay and have a drink till everyone else is gone.”

She actually thought about it, for more than the millisecond that her reflex refusal would have taken, but then she shook her head. “I need to get home. Thanks for the offer.”

“Till tomorrow,” he said automatically.

Tomorrow, he thought as he cleared up, he’d have the other outing. Purely for his own benefit, of course, but for one night of the year he could be his supernatural self and simply enjoy the world in full. He had it all planned out: his mother had a different party, Alexis yet another, and he…would have the other world, for one night and one night only.


	2. Chapter 2

Beckett went home and slept soundly until late into the morning, as she had instructed herself. She’d be awake for most of the night, tonight, and she had preparations to make. Already, the city was beginning to hum around her: twitching her senses, plucking at her mind. By twilight, only six hours away, the air would be electric, and her nerves and mind would be singing in response. As the dead began to stir, slowly waking, her energy built, and othersight began to consume her.

At six, she was dressed and ready: had set candles, safely enclosed in glass containers, burning at home to leave light in the darkness; and, bearing four other candles, a pale bowl, and a small silver knife, razor sharp, began her journey to her selected graveyard.

As soon as she parked, she opened her witch sight fully, and smiled coldly: the ghosts were already restless. She slipped through the gates – on this one night they could be passed without a flicker – and then released all of her senses. The cemetery might be in darkness, but she could see as if it were daylight.

She strode through chill white marble, and smiled more coldly still: her eyes gleamed green in the darkness; witchlight trailing from the hem of her black dress.

She came to her chosen spot, and knelt, setting the bowl down and arranging her candles at the four cardinal points.

“I am here,” she said into the dark. She lit each candle not with flame but with cold, white witch-light; took the silver knife in hand and cut a lock of hair, placed it in the bowl, pricked her finger and added three measured drops of her own blood. Around her, the thin, whining wind fell away; the shadows of the gravestones leaned in towards her, forming an outer circle; a waxing, gibbous moon, half obscured by high clouds, shone above her; moonlight illuminating her dark head.

With one quick, sure movement she set light to the hair and blood; and as the flame took hold, it rose and steadied, burning without further fuel except her will that it should be so. Her form changed: her dress became full length, a much older style; her hair darkened to black; her skin paled to the white of her bone bowl; a mask hid her face; and her eyes were infinite; carrying the dark of the night and the multitudinous stars; no longer human.

“Arise from your graves,” she whispered, and yet her voice reached to the furthest corners of the cemetery, and into the deepest tombs. “Come forth, and live again this night.”

Where she knelt, the dead arose: white bone fingers grasping at the edges of their graves, emerging; the thin bones of the oldest dead, clutching at the remnant of life that she gave, shrouded lightly in a seeming of their flesh; the newest dead still almost as they had been in life, their rising sweeping out around her. As she waited, the dead solidified, gathered, and stood before her, silent and still.

She stood, and bowed to them; the dead bowed in their turn.

“I greet you on this All Hallows’ Eve,” she breathed.

_And we you. La Belle Dame Sans Merci has come to us again._

“And so I do.” Blood-red lips smiled. “It is our night now. Let our dance begin.”

Far overhead, a howling, yammering terror echoed, closing on the serried ranks of the dead and the pale, cold witch who had called them.

“Or not,” she said icily. “Who dares disturb the Dance of the Dead?”

***

His mother and daughter gone, Castle began his preparations for the one night of the year when he could be his other self. He stripped and washed, then dressed in a plain black t-shirt and pants. Coatless, he went out, heading for Central Park, and then, once there, unaffected by the cold, for Hernshead. Such an appropriate place to begin, he thought, all childish enthusiasm falling away as he stood on the jutting rocks and looked out over the water.

He whistled, long, deep and heavy, and as he did so, the howling began. His face fell into hard, proud lines, menace cloaking him; the t-shirt disappeared and the pants changed to dark hide. Antlers grew from his head: the twenty points of an emperor stag, and the bones of his face shifted to hint at the stag’s head; while his body retained the shape of a human. Furious howling scythed through the air; hoofbeats pounded through the clouds; and before him reared the night-black, burning eyed horse on which Herne the Hunter would, this All Hallows’ Eve, lead the Wild Hunt above Manhattan. The pack of black dogs slavered and panted around him, fanged mouths wide, eyes red coals in their fearsome heads: shaggy and savage, snapping at the air.

He mounted, and the Hunt began, storming through the thin cloud and the pallid light of the waxing moon, shadows against the night. As they passed, dogs howled and cowered; cats hissed and spat; men and women pulled their coats tightly around them and hurried home, unaccountable fears pursuing them.

Suddenly the Black Shuck who led Herne’s pack raised its head and growled, resonating through the night, and cast about for the scent of prey. The pack streamed after it, and among them Herne rode tall and terrifying; a predator on the trail of his quarry. The pack spoke in one horrific voice, rending the silence of the othernight, shrieking their murderous fury into the teeth of the wind as they raced northward over Manhattan; carrying the promise of ripping flesh and bleeding wounds before them, and Herne laughed darkly at their rabid yammering.

The pack dove screaming through the night, down into cold white marble and the ghosts below, jaws wide and dripping bloody drool – and stopped at cold command.

“Who dares disturb the Dance of the Dead? Hold hard, hounds!”

As his pack halted, Herne’s mount descended, horse’s hooves sparking. “I hunt. You dare deny me my prize?”

“I dare. These ghosts are mine, and you may not have them.”

The Hunter dismounted. “A defender of the dead?”

“A defender. Tonight, of the dead.”

Herne met her cold, empty gaze with his own hot eyes. Raw sexuality surrounded him; a hard, rough masculinity. “What do you here?”

“We dance.”

“Then dance with me,” he said, and smiled wolfishly. “Perhaps the ghosts are not the Hunter’s prey tonight.”

Her own smile chilled the air. “You would dance with the Belle Dame Sans Merci? Then we shall dance.” She turned to her ghosts. “Let the Dance of the Dead begin.”

Music in a minor key wept through the night breeze. The Hunter bowed, the Belle Dame curtsied; and a stately pavane began. Fingers touched, and the Hunter and the Belle Dame led the ghosts in the processional dance of a long-gone court; watched by the red-flamed eyes of the black dogs’ pack and the Hunter’s horse.

As the dance continued, the linked hands of the leaders never ceased to touch; their eyes met, and locked, and held; lightning that did not slice the heavens flashed between them; the air heating, eroticism building. The music changed to a waltz, and while the ghosts partnered each other, moving between themselves, the Dame and the Hunter remained together, without an eye to anyone else. He clasped her closer, the arm around her waist hard and strong; but no captive she: her own fine, elegant hand laid upon his shoulder.

“I came for you. I have my prize.” the Hunter said, and dipped his head to kiss her: sure and searching, possessively male and forceful: a predator stalking his prey. She opened to him, as the ghosts waltzed on, and he turned her from the dancing dead to the dark, clawing trees, the marble monuments. “I came to hunt, and my hunt has succeeded.” He kissed her again, falling into the depths of her eyes: taking her mouth as of right, hard hands pressing her into harder body, trapping her within the cage of his form, between broad chest and cold stone; as he was in turn trapped in the infinite starry dark of her gaze.

Far away, a bell tolled. The Hunter dragged his hot eyes from hers; the Belle Dame took her pale hands from his neck. A second stroke, and a third, and he stepped back: she moved towards the ghosts; the music slowed, then stopped on a minor chord, diminuendo. The fourth and fifth chimes, and the black horse came to the Hunter’s summons, the dogs to attention. Her dead moved to their ranks before her. She bowed to them, and they to her, and began to flow back to their tombs; a whispered fare-thee-well sending them home.

“I thank you for the dance,” the Hunter said. “But now I have your trail, I shall find you.” He bowed, as the sixth stroke rang out.

“I thank you likewise,” the Belle Dame returned, “though I would remind you of the pale wight by the river.” She curtsied.

“He was but a man. I…am somewhat more.” He mounted, and gathered up black reins.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps you will find me. But I am not so easy to find.”

As the seventh note sounded, he clicked his tongue, and the night-horse leaped into the sky, followed by the yammering pack. The Belle Dame knelt on the cold earth, and as the final stroke of midnight clanged out in the cold, the flame guttered and died, and she became Beckett once more.

“Well, _that_ was interesting,” she said to herself, as she blew out the cardinal candles, and returned to her car. Interesting…wasn’t the word. The Hunter had exuded hard male sexuality, and every thrumming nerve in her body had reacted to him. She was wound tight, small muscles clenching on emptiness, liquid between her legs, thrillingly, desperately aroused; the scent of raw male in her nostrils and the memory of his touch on her skin; the remembrance of his muscle under her grip and his tongue taking her mouth with total confidence. Had he appeared in front of her then, she’d have opened her mouth and then her body to him without the slightest hesitation. It was just as well he wasn’t there. It gave her a chance to calm down, and to drive sedately home, shutting down her witchery, slipping out of her other self.

Calmness lasted until she found herself in front of her mirror, stripped naked before taking a scalding shower – and found an antler mark upon her shoulder. The Hunter’s horns, imprinted into her skin. He’d _marked_ her as his prey.

Her witch-self exploded into life: her fury mushrooming outwards over the silent city, searching for the Hunter’s trail. Mark her, would he? _Nobody_ marked her as theirs. As Belle Dame or as Detective, she was no-one’s prize or possession. Her wrath searched, harrying the empty othernight, raking through the darkness. Frustrated, she pulled her mind back, and began to prepare a spell. All she needed was a flake of skin, and there, under her nails, was just enough. Fuelled by rage, she built her charm and flung it out into the night, to seek out and land on the Hunter, wherever he might be.

He had to be another seeming-human, hiding his other self beneath a lacquer of lies, and her enchantment would find him. She showered, but when she was dry, the mark remained.

In her fevered, heated dreams, she danced again with the Hunter; sometimes as the Belle Dame Sans Merci, sometimes as Kate Beckett, easy prey for his hunt. And in the morning, she wondered how she could be so entrapped, when (though she only admitted it to herself) she was falling in love with Rick Castle.

***

At Hernshead, the Hunter dismounted, sending the pack of black dogs, led by the Black Shuck, back to the supernatural forest realms in which they roamed; stroked the nose of his flame-eyed horse, and as the last chime died away, dismissed it. Hide pants returned to fabric, his black t-shirt clothed his chest, and the antlers dissolved as his face returned to normal.

That…had been astonishing. He was still rock hard, deeply and uncomfortably erect and wholly aroused. Had she appeared in front of him right then – he’d have been hard pressed not to take her there in the Park. Whoever she was.

He smiled darkly. He’d find her, though. He’d marked her, and even when she was human again, he’d be able to find her. All he’d have to do was extend a little tendril of thought, and he’d locate her. He showered, washing away the last hints of the Hunter, and fell asleep exhausted, pressing at a tiny sting on his shoulder.

In his fervid dreams, he danced again with the Belle Dame Sans Merci, sometimes as the Hunter, proud and predatory; sometimes as Rick Castle, easy prey for her enchantment. And in the morning, he wondered how he could have been so ensnared, when (he would admit to himself alone) he was in love with Kate Beckett.

***

In the precinct, Beckett was unwontedly calm, which was always dangerous for those around her. Her team walked warily; the other cops walked wide of her. It really wasn’t worth the risk of her world-shattering glare landing on them. Still, Beckett’s temper being ruffled was quite normal, and would be cured just as soon as she had a nice suspect to grill. _Please let that be soon_ , the bullpen thought.

Beckett’s temper had been massively not improved by the previous night, and much to her fury she hadn’t yet been able to find the person behind the Hunter. Fortunately for the rest of the precinct, a suspect presented itself, and she could work out her mood in tying him into pretzels in Interrogation One. Just as she was about to start, Castle arrived, and joined her.

The interrogation was nasty, brutish and short. Not, however, because of Beckett’s temper, but because Castle’s famous amiability had clearly taken a vacation. He loomed over the suspect like the coming of Doom, scowling blackly, and exuding aggression and anger. The suspect folded like wet cardboard, and was taken off to the cells. He looked pretty glad to go, if only someone would promise that Castle wouldn’t follow him.

Castle and Beckett stalked out of Interrogation One equally angry at the world. All the other cops cleared their path to the break room and the coffee machine.

“What’s wrong?” Beckett asked, once the first coffee had dropped through her asbestos-coated throat and she’d made a second.

“Bad night,” Castle said tersely. “You?” He tipped his own coffee back, and rubbed at a point on his shoulder.

“Same.” Beckett managed not to rub her own shoulder where the mark burned and itched. She was having to work really hard to keep her annoyance contained, and the magical effort to stop the mark really infuriating her – and prevent anyone out there detecting it, such as the Hunter – was burning through her reserves faster than running a half marathon at Olympic pace. “I’d have thought you loved Hallowe’en.”

“I do. But today’s not Hallowe’en and I didn’t sleep well after midnight.”

“Sympathy,” Beckett said, unsympathetically. “Nightmares? You shouldn’t eat cheese pie late at night.”

“I didn’t.” Castle rubbed his shoulder again. “If I did sleep,” he complained, “I slept wrongly on this shoulder. It aches.”

Beckett found a tiny drop of true sympathy. “Let’s go get a burger,” she said. “I’m hungry. Maybe we’re both just hangry.”

“Maybe,” Castle agreed, and was quite unreasonably happy that Beckett had suggested that they should have lunch together. He just wished that his shoulder wasn’t so sore: he was expending a considerable amount of mental energy in keeping it damped down and under control, which meant that he couldn’t be using that energy to try and track down the mark he’d left on the Belle Dame.

He stopped dead, and was firmly pushed into the elevator. _He’d_ marked the Dame. Could she have marked him? In which case, she was searching him out – except that he was hiding the mark and his nature – and _she_ might well be doing the same.

 _Shit_. He hadn’t thought of that; caught up in the Hunter’s simplistic world-view. The Hunter had marked his prey and left it at that, sure that his mark would be enough. Clearly, using his normal intelligence, rather than the Hunter’s track-catch-keep limited brain, the Belle Dame wouldn’t simply let herself be caught. And more to the point – he needed to take a good look at his sore shoulder.

“Are you coming for lunch or not?”

“Oh – yes. I’m hungry.” Yes, he was. For food, but also for information. He couldn’t wait to open up his othersight and look at his shoulder. Annoyingly, satisfying his intense curiosity would have to wait. Beckett, who was about as likely to appreciate tales of supernaturality as a rock would be, wouldn’t be sympathetic at all. She’d be even more viciously disbelieving than normal, which was going some. He gathered his thoughts and some sense, and behaved totally normally through lunch.

“I have to get back,” Beckett said.

“To the paperwork? I’ll pass.”

“Yeah.”

“Till tomorrow.”

Castle walked perfectly properly for exactly as long as it took for him to be out of Beckett’s sight, and then frankly ran to the subway, finger-tapped frantically until the train arrived, and then ran from the subway to his loft. He dashed into his bedroom, fortunately undelayed by any of his family, stripped off his shirt on the way to the bathroom, and stared into the mirror until he located the small bruise. Strangely, it looked rather like a carnival mask, which raised his suspicions instantly. The Belle Dame had worn just such a mask. Not that it had stopped him kissing her in any way at all, which thought did nothing for his calm.

He refocused, which was surprisingly difficult, since the memory of kissing the Belle Dame…well, it had been spectacularly hot. As hot as he thought kissing Beckett might be, if only he had the chance.

 _Focus, Rick_. He examined the mask-shaped bruise and then, cautiously, let out his othersight. Then he slammed it shut again.

 _That_ was a witch-mark. The Belle Dame had marked him – _after_ he’d returned to human. Which meant that she was a witch. Well, okay. When he wasn’t the Hunter, he was still a warlock. In general, then, there were two ways that this story could go. They could fight till one of them was dead, or at least deprived of all power, or they could join forces.

He liked the second idea better, he supposed. He wasn’t big on scorched-earth victory. He did have the rather uncomfortable feeling that joining forces with a witch might rather upset Beckett, who would only see him consorting with another woman and certainly wouldn’t believe the reasons for it, however true they were, and he really did _not_ like how aroused this witch had made him…

If only it were Beckett, he thought, and slumped dispiritedly. He didn’t _like_ this feeling that he was somehow being unfaithful to someone he wasn’t even dating and who hadn’t exactly indicated that a date would be appreciated. Still, he could find out where this charm had come from.

He thought hard for a while, scribbling down points of logical order, and then constructed a trap. He was, after all, the quintessential Hunter, and the Hunter, well, _hunted_. If the Dame came looking…he’d know it, and more to the point, unless she was even smarter than he thought, he’d have a breadcrumb trail that followed her home.

That done, and devoid of writing inspiration, Castle wandered out to be sociable, which, as ever, translated to _let’s go and annoy Beckett and see whether this time she’ll appreciate my wit, charm and personality._ All the way into bed, for preference.


	3. Chapter 3

Beckett, safely at home after an ineffably tedious afternoon of paperwork, unleavened by Castle’s cheerful insanity but therefore also unpolluted by his ridiculously credulous and superstitious nonsense, made her dinner and then sat comfortably on her couch, eating her meal and contemplating coffee and her next move. She was also contemplating the implications of another supernatural entity in Manhattan, which implications, from her scowl, were not providing positive thoughts.

She hadn’t – _yet_ – had a chance to extend her senses and find her mark, but that wasn’t, she thought, perhaps something into which she should rush. Apart from anything else, _he’d_ marked _her_ , and that meant that the Hunter would be searching for her. She reinforced the screen blocking the mark, for the moment.

The Hunter, hunting her. If only she hadn’t been so uncomfortable about her reaction to him, she might have liked being hunted. Somehow, her arousal at the thought felt disloyal to Castle. She squirmed. She wasn’t even dating him. Anyway, she needed to know who this other person hiding out as a human might be, if only to protect herself.

Just as she was about to open her mind, she had a thought. She was being hunted, and hunting in her turn. Competing against the first and greatest Hunter. There was, therefore, an enormous chance that he would set a trap for her, which would be undesirable. With extreme care, she constructed a tiny probe from her senses, which wouldn’t be traceable. All it would do was tell her whether the Hunter was still in Manhattan – and if not, a vague direction. She set it loose, and awaited its demise, which was surprisingly rapid.

Hell. He was in Manhattan. Now what?

At that point, Castle’s familiar knock rat-a-tat-tatted on her door. She was actually pleased to hear it.

***

Just as Castle exited the elevator in Beckett’s building, his trap snapped shut on… nothing. Whatever had recognised the mark, it hadn’t returned to its sender, it had simply dissipated into the air. It seemed, he thought bitterly, that the Belle Dame was considerably smarter than he’d hoped. If it weren’t for Beckett, he’d really have appreciated that.

Something flickered in the back of his mind, but it wouldn’t just land and be caught, which was _totally_ not fair, before Beckett opened the door.

“Hey,” she said, with more enthusiasm (that would be _any_ ) than she normally managed. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Castle said, and produced his best smile. “It’s been an unproductive day.”

“So you’ve come to annoy me?”

“Yep,” he agreed. “And to admire your beautiful face and figure” –

“From a safe distance.”

“Well, yes, unless you want me to admire from a very unsafe distance.”

“Unsafe for you.”

“Oh, no, Beckett. Unsafe for your composure and control.”

“No chance.”

“Bet?”

“Sure,” she snapped, and at Castle’s shit-eating grin realised that her overall irritation and concentration on finding the Hunter had led her right into trouble. Trouble, in this case, being synonymous with Castle. She made coffee with an expression that presaged murder. Castle, wisely, stayed well clear of the kettle and French press.

When Beckett brought the coffee and mugs, declining his gentlemanly offer to carry the tray, however, he waited politely until she’d sat down, and then sat down right next to her, so close, in fact, that his thigh pressed into hers.

“What are you doing?”

“Beginning to admire you,” Castle said with remarkable composure. He slung an arm around her slim shoulders.

“That’s” –

“Nice?” said Castle, with a happy grin. “I think it’s nice. You’re cuddly.”

“I am not cuddly!” Beckett expostulated. Expostulation, happily, covered up the fact that she was suddenly reacting to Castle as hotly and violently as to the Hunter. She shifted, intending to move away, and found that there was no _away_ into which she could move, since she’d automatically tucked herself into her corner. The shift had, remarkably, plastered her against Castle’s side, which was a lot more muscular than she’d expected, as was the arm around her.

“But I’m cuddling you,” Castle pointed out, “so you must be cuddly.” He pouted plaintively, and produced puppy eyes. “Come and be cuddled properly. I need something to cuddle to take away the horrible day.”

“You – huh?” Beckett gleeped. Suddenly, she appeared to be in Castle’s lap. “What are you _doing_?”

“Admiring you, from an unsafe distance. You said I could. Well, you bet that it wouldn’t affect your composure and control, but,” he shrugged, “I don’t like losing bets, and I can tell you’re affected.”

“I am not!” she lied. She absolutely was. The closer she got to his face, the more she simply wanted to fall into his mouth.

“That’s not true,” he murmured. “I can feel the pulse in your neck jumping. It’s faster than normal.”

Beckett could feel Castle. She could feel a _lot_ of Castle, in fact, and he was affected too. She’d been almost as close in the would-be vampire case – and then the boys had interrupted just before one of them had leaned in.

“So I think you’re affected,” he said smugly. His arm shifted, and enclosed her. “I have my prize,” he said, just as the Hunter had, dipped his head to graze her lips, but just as _she_ had then, she opened to him and it exploded.

His hand came up to cup her skull and hold her; hers traced his cheek; he dived into her mouth and raided as he pleased, kissing her hard and deep, sure and searching: taking as she gave. She fell into the heat as she’d fallen with the Hunter, blazing with desire and completely and only in the moment. As the kiss became still more possessive, his grip became harder, tighter, caging her; long, thick fingers slipping around her neck and turning her shoulder into him, touching the Hunter’s mark. Her hand slipped to his shoulder, and then began to undo his shirt, fingers slipping within the cotton to touch hot skin and the slight roughness of hair, moving back up to grip and clutch and – suddenly the world changed around them.

Witchlight flared, and deep in a green wood with the trees leaning in around them, the Belle Dame pressed against the Hunter’s chest, passion flaming between them: two beings at the height of their powers. Raw, rampant masculinity met the infinite depths of her eyes and drowned in them; addictive sensuality entered the cage of his strength and was caught there. His kiss turned harder, demanding; he stood and took the Belle Dame with him without effort, lifted her, still devouring her mouth –

But as he lifted, his hand moved, no longer touching his mark, and suddenly the world shifted back to the everyday.

“What the _hell_?”

“You’re the Hunter?”

“You’re La Belle Dame Sans Merci?”

“You _marked_ me!”

“You did the same,” Castle riposted. “You don’t get to complain!”

“You did it first!”

“That’s not the point!”

“Yes it is. You started it.”

“Started what?”

“Interfering with _my_ Hallowe’en party.”

“Party? You were standing in a crowd of skeletons and ghosts.”

“Yes, so? It’s the Dance of the Dead, not a rave. And you were _so_ interfering.”

“I’m the Hunter. I hunt.”

“You didn’t need to hunt _my_ dead.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were so. If I hadn’t defended them your damned dogs would have ripped them apart.”

“Asunder would have been so much more literary in that sentence,” Castle mused, “though I do like the accuracy of damned. They’re the Black Dogs, led by Black Shuck.”

“This is _not_ the time for literary criticism!”

“Any time is a good time for literary thought. Have I told you how hot your vocabulary is?”

Beckett screeched, without any discernible vocabulary within the sound. “You…you… _myth_!” she eventually managed.

“You’re just as much a myth as I am!”

“I’m perfectly real.”

“So’m I, so who’s calling me a _myth_? But if you want legends, just come back here.”

“Huh?”

“I’m legendary.”

“You’re an arrogant ass.”

“Who always catches his prey,” Castle pointed out. “You were enjoying that as much as I was – hold on. How did it happen anyway?”

“What?”

“How were we suddenly them? Or should that be us? Are they us? I mean, I’m not a hunter most of the time so maybe he’s not me, but then who else could he be because I turn into him on Hallowe’en every year since I grew up. I guess I never tried to find out if I could be him any other time because I could just be me” –

“Stop _babbling_. Are you a witch” –

“Warlock, actually” –

“Whatever – all the rest of the time?”

“Yes – aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Beckett snapped. “You don’t just turn it off.”

“Well, if you can’t, why would I be able to? Where’s your logic gone?”

“I have plenty of logic,” Beckett said, and very illogically stuck her tongue out at Castle in lieu of any better ideas.

“I’m the nine-year old in this partnership,” he pouted. “But I still want to know why we were suddenly our otherselves, and then I want to do it again because kissing you was _amazing_.”

Beckett made a very strange noise and then dropped straight down on to her couch.

“What? You can’t tell me you weren’t enjoying it too. You were all over me.” He smirked. “And anyway, the Hunter could hear your heart and, um, detect your excitement. So to speak.”

Beckett’s face turned an unlovely scarlet, and she tried to hide in the couch cushions. Castle, for once feeling that he had the upper hand, sat down right next to her, and pulled her out.

“Stop hiding.” He plonked her back in his lap. “I wanna know how we were the others.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s _not_ an answer. Why?” The piercing Beckett glare hit him right between the eyes.

“Because, um… Don’t you wanna know? Don’t you want to be her more than once a year?”

“No,” Beckett lied, deadpan.

“Liar,” Castle said amiably.

“Am not.”

“Are so. I can feel your lies, you know.”

Beckett muttered something under her breath. It sounded very like _damn warlocks should be shot_.

“And a bullet won’t work on me, either.”

This time the mutter wasn’t under her breath. “Pity.”

“You don’t mean that,” Castle said happily. “You want to be kissed again.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re lying again. Telling fibs is naughty, Detective.”

Beckett grumbled and groused.

“Besides, you’re quite happily sitting on my knee, so you must be happy to be there.” His hand curved around her shoulder, and abruptly paused. “The marks!” he gasped. “That’s what did it. I touched yours and you touched mine and that’s when the world shifted. So if we did it again…” He slipped his hand into the neck of her tee, and his fingers found the mark. “It’s a little warm,” he said wonderingly. “Now you.”

Beckett stared at him. “You want me to touch that mark?”

“Yes.” He looked hopeful. “Don’t you want to know? Come on. We solve mysteries, don’t we? This is a good mystery. Isn’t it?”

“Depends on your definition,” she growled.

“C’mon. All we have to do to stop it is move one hand.”

“Don’t want to.”

“I want to. And you owe me.”

“For _what_? I don’t owe you anything.”

“For being supernatural and pretending you thought it was all a big hoax and absolutely not true when all this time you knew it was.”

“What about you pretending to be all superstitious and credulous” –

“Your vocabulary is so _hot_ ,” Castle murmured.

“And yours is so repetitive. You already said that.”

“I can say it again.”

“Shut up. Pretending to believe in all the _crap_ when secretly you knew the real story.”

“Like you would have given me the time of day.”

“It’s not something I advertise. I’m not like you, showing off all over the city.”

“I’m a _celebrity_ ,” Castle said, thoroughly offended. “I have to do PR. I don’t _show off_. I’m working. And you’re _still_ sitting in my lap and not even objecting to my hand on your shoulder, so why don’t you stop being contrary and just touch my mark so we can see what happens?”

Beckett sighed. “Will it shut you up?”

“Yes,” said Castle, who merely didn’t mention _why_ it would shut him up – seeing as he never talked with his mouth full.

Her hand slipped back into his shirt: almost a caress, and drifted up to his shoulder, paused, and then –

They were back in the Greenwood, shaded by the reaching trees: their otherselves, standing, locked together. The Hunter dipped his head and kissed the Belle Dame again.

“Mine,” he said with predatory satisfaction. “I hunted, and I have my prize.”

The Belle Dame looked up at him through night-sparkled eyes. “Or I have mine,” she said. “None have escaped my nets.”

“No quarry has eluded me.”

“Tell me, Hunter, would you willingly abandon me?”

The Hunter paused. “I do not release my prizes.”

“Nor I mine. So who has caught whom, then?”

Another pause, and then the Hunter smiled wolfishly. “How should it matter, milady?” He brought her against him, where she could feel every hard inch, one hand remaining over his mark, one at the base of her back. “We have other business to discuss.”

“We do,” she confirmed, and drew his head down so that her lips met his. She took, and he gave: the Hunter hunted down and himself caught. She moved against him, and the hand that had been on her back began to loosen laces and buttons, the formal dress of long ago opening to allow his hard palm to touch her skin. The bodice fell away, and bare chest met bare breasts to light the fire once more. She shifted closer, and -

“What” – Beckett started – “happened there?”

“You moved your hand,” Castle said, “and here we are…uh…back…”

“Where’s my shirt?”

“Uh…”

“How come you’ve still got a shirt on and I don’t?” Beckett griped.

“I can take it off.” He started on the buttons. “You didn’t seem to object when I didn’t have one on, so why don’t we even matters up?” The shirt fell to the floor. Beckett stared at the muscles thus revealed. “Like what you see?”

She didn’t answer, but her tongue touched her lips and her eyes dilated.

“C’mere,” Castle purred, and brought her back. He might be back in the everyday world, but the Hunter’s nature was asserting itself, and Beckett was most definitely his prey. Deep in her wide eyes he could see the reflection of infinity, but in that starry infinity he could see her desire. “C’mere and kiss me again.”

“Only if we stay in one place.”

Castle thought for a bare instant. “Can you – dumb, of course you can, or I’d have found you ten minutes after midnight. If we mask the marks” –

“It’ll be temporary.”

“We can work something else out together later.” He grinned, as happy as a child with a new toy. “I’ve never done joint witchery. It’ll be great to have a partner.”

Beckett’s glare could have cut steel.

“I mean, we’re already partners in the precinct,” he stammered – and then straightened up. “Nope. No stammering. You liked the Hunter, not a blithering idiot.” His brow wrinkled. “Come to think of it, you always like me better when I, mm, _assert_ myself.” Wrinkles smoothed out. “How about a bit of assertion, then. Let’s mask the marks, and then carry on with exploring each other. Without the world shifts. They’re really very off-putting.” The last sentence arrived with an implication that being put off was not on the agenda for the next little while – unless it were clothes which were being put off. He made a quick gesture, and the tiny mask disappeared from his shoulder.

Not to be outdone, Beckett’s mark disappeared without her so much as flickering a finger.

“Very neat,” Castle approved, and then smiled dangerously. “Now, come here.”

“I” – _am here_ , Beckett had been going to say, but Castle had already imprisoned her and taken her mouth without so much as a by-your-leave.

Somewhere in the sexual fog that used to be her brain, she decided that she liked assertion. As long as she got to do some asserting later, of course. Turnabout would be fair play…ohhhhh, he could play like that all day, though. He stood up, taking her up with him, and pushed her (how did he manage that?) undone pants from her hips.

“There,” he purred. “Much better.” He picked her up, she wrapped legs around his waist, and went straight to her bedroom. “And this is a much better place than the Greenwood. More comfortable for you.” His face was devilish. “Nothing to hurt your back.” He dropped her on the bed, gently, and surveyed her through hot blue eyes. “Gorgeous. And all mine.”

They might have been in the everyday world, but the look on his face was wholly that of the Hunter. She smiled back sensuously, and knew that he was as trapped as ever she was. “Mine,” she breathed, and drew him down to her.

He cupped her face, stroking her hair back from the sharp bones, and fell into her eyes again. Her mouth was lush under his, soft and open and inviting. He didn’t yet settle over her, content to be at her side, where hands could explore: pet and touch and tease and play; temporarily taming his wild witch as she would, temporarily, tame the Hunter. Slim hands traced the muscle of his back, then his chest, skimming flat nipples and skirting around his pecs again, leaving him rigid and ready without so much as an indelicate touch. He glided one hand down her taut stomach, slipping over smooth skin, eliciting a tiny gasp as he approached the soft small swell of her breasts and then retreated again. She flexed, and it was his turn to breathe harder, and then groan as her long fingers slipped downward to find him. In return, thick fingers began to find her; teasing downwards and between, sliding through damp heat and firing sensitive nerves so that she arched and moved. Delicately, he peeled away her bra, then panties, even as she rolled down his boxers.

Castle’s face changed, no longer mischievous and boyish but harder, intent, all adult and all male; Beckett’s eyes deepened and darkened, starlight glinting in their depths. No words, now, only touch and taste; hands exploring, mouths giving and taking; and then in one powerful thrust and open acceptance, bodies joining and moving in perfect rhythm until explosive release.

They lay, side by side, recovering breath, bodies glistening, barely touching, until, without either looking at the other, fingers sneaked together to entwine.

“Do you use witchery to help you solve cases?” Castle asked idly.

“Hell, no! What do you think I am? Forced confessions are forced whether it’s physical beating or mental.” Beckett sat up, enraged. “I would never, _ever_ do that!”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Castle said as fast as he could get the words out. “I mean, clues, or hints, or witchsight” –

“Do you?” asked Beckett pointedly. “After all, you’re a warlock and you’re there too.”

“No.”

“So why would I? And why don’t you? You’re not even a cop.” Castle coloured, and squirmed. Beckett glared down at him. “Why. Not?”

“I’m the _Hunter_ ,” he squeezed out. “That would be _cheating_.” Beckett waited. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Got it?”

“I guess. You couldn’t exactly explain how you got there in court, could you? And you have to. Every step of the way.” He leaned up on an elbow. “So now we straightened that out, come back here.”

Beckett didn’t move.

“C’mon. Come back here,” he enticed. “More fun.” He regarded her carefully, and detected a tiny hint of anticipation in her face, a tiny rebalancing of her muscles.

He pounced: swiping her into his arm and then leaning down over her to hold her in place – what? She’d gone. He stared around the room, and heard a snicker. Well, now. Well, _now_. If she wanted to play hide and seek – with a little kiss (or something) chase attached, he was most _certainly_ up for the hunt. And since she’d used witchery – he could too. He opened his othersight wide, and fell into the mindset of the Hunter, hunting.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course, her hiding was more than superficial. Castle-Hunter had to work to find any trace of her, and the harder he had to work, the…well, the harder he became. Hunting Beckett was arousing. Hiding – and being hunted – was obviously amusing her: the question was: was it also arousing?

And then he had an idea. She’d hidden from sight, but there were other senses available. He could only hear her when she deliberately made a noise – but he could try to, er, _sniff her out_. He let himself, for possibly the first time ever, drop into the Hunter’s full powers when it wasn’t Hallowe’en.

Instantly the world became different: an overlay of sounds that had previously been too low or too high; sharper eyesight, a little further into each end of the spectrum; and a _much_ better sense of smell. The scent of cherries became apparent, tinged heavily with the flavour of arousal. Quite literally, he was going to follow his nose.

But he was going to do so with subterfuge and sneakiness, as befit a Hunter stalking his prey. And so he prowled around the space, closing and retreating, until at last he snapped arms shut around her. “Caught you,” he whispered darkly, and dropped a spellnet over her to stop her hiding again. “My prize.”

“You found me,” she murmured. “So now what?” Without even a gesture she dissolved his net, but she didn’t pull away.

“I keep you.”

“Oh?” She lifted an eyebrow in a very Beckettian gesture. “How do you think you’ll manage that?”

“Persuasion,” he murmured, velvet baritone slithering over her skin. “I can be very persuasive.” His hands slipped down her back, holding her close.

“Mmm,” she hummed, a touch cynical, a lot intrigued. “A hunter who can persuade, not just trap?”

“Yes.”

“Give it your best shot.”

On first reflection, that probably hadn’t been a challenge she should have issued. On second reflection, it definitely had been. The Hunter had exuded rough-edged masculinity, but Castle shifted that to include a smooth, suave sexuality and the benefit of what must have been considerable expertise, absolutely all of which was wholly focused on stalking what was left of her mind and reducing it to a hot, wet mess; focused only on what he could do, and was doing, and would do – which last he was murmuring into her ears. From her ears it had bypassed her brain, which wasn’t functional anyway, and was running down every over-sensitised synapse and nerve ending. His fingers gently commanded, his mouth nibbled and kissed and licked and sucked, his touch scorched and soothed at once. She melted and flowed against him, and he scooped her up to return her to her bed where he had full freedom to seduce.

Seduced she was, with mouth and hands; words and touches; lips and tongue and fingers: every blazing inch. She would have reciprocated, but she wasn’t given the chance: her hands held in one wide span, and when he let go she was so deeply dissolved into lust that she couldn’t have done anything other than reacting as his actions demanded.

Castle, still consumed by the Hunter’s instincts, was determined to capture _his_ Beckett, _his_ lady; show her that she was his, and leave her so bone-deep conquered and claimed by his seduction that she’d never want to be anywhere else. To that end, though _thinking_ wasn’t playing much, if any, part in his behaviour, experience and expertise, plus the Hunter’s extra-sensitive senses, were leading him to wind her higher and tighter, hotter and wetter and more desperate for anything, everything, he could provide.

He nibbled delicately at her neck, flittered down a little, up again, across to her lush, parted lips, where he explored and then invaded, deep and possessive, taking all that she would give – which was substantial: almost drowning him in his own desire. But he would catch her, keep her, never let her go…

He kissed downward, into the valley between the swells of her firm breasts: paused there and listened to her breathing quicken. His matched it: her breasts were perfect: creamy skin, pink peaks; presented to him like the finest of desserts – and he was _hungry_.

He fell to feasting. The first time, he – they – hadn’t stopped for niceties, but this time he had all the time he wanted. He drew a nipple into his mouth, and suckled: heard her soft gasp and smiled against her skin, did it again, and again; repeated on the other side. He should be fair, after all. And anticipation would make his destination all the sweeter.

Gorgeous breasts properly lavished with affection, Castle-Hunter began to slither down the creamy, silky skin below, whiffling naughtily into her navel to make her wriggle and squeak indignantly, then kissing seductively to the very edge of the messy curls. She arched, trying to bring him closer, but the Hunter was almost upon his prey, and he wasn’t inclined to allow it to escape him. Strong hands locked around lean thighs; wide shoulders opened the way; and then talented tongue began to display its skills.

He loved this. He loved the way that his partner – _this_ partner, specifically – writhed and moaned and tried to command him as he worked her higher and higher, let her drop a little and then took her higher again, until, with one firm lick and a wicked slide of fingers, she cried out and exploded. He smiled ferally, slithered up the sheets to be beside her, and firmly wrapped her into his arms and against him, right where she should be, a possessive hand cupping one soft breast, a leg between hers. The Hunter never let his prize evade him.

It didn’t occur to him to look up the tale of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, just as it hadn’t occurred to him at any point since Hallowe’en night. Had he not been so fuddled with desire and need to catch his Beckett-lady, he might have found that deeply suspicious: but he was, and he didn’t.

It also didn’t occur to him that it had never been so easy to become the Hunter: in fact, that he had never become the Hunter outside the twenty four hours of Hallowe’en. He’d certainly never slipped into the supernatural persona with any other woman. But he didn’t notice that, either. For a supposedly observant man, who’d spent close to nine months observing Beckett for the slightest blink or twitch, he was suddenly remarkably unobservant.

The only thing that he was noticing, in fact, was how delightful it was to have Beckett snug against him; how soft her skin was; how wonderfully curved her lithe body, the press of her slim ass and the curves of her hips and breasts; how, if he nibbled at her beautifully accessible earlobe or neck, she’d wriggle and writhe and be wet and warm and wantonly willing with him. If, however, he glided fingers down, the same could happen…

His fingers were halfway down her stomach before the thought was finished, and she squirmed against him and invited him lower, seduction in every movement she made; a sinuous twist so that her mouth could meet his and entice him to conquer, to take, to own. The Hunter hunted, and the Hunter caught.

Or so he thought, as he took her with mouth and hands and then hard, thrusting body; as she took him into her and encouraged his every touch and movement; her motion pulling him deeper and closer, enveloping him until his own release matched hers; and then he caged her close again, feeling her curl into him.

She was his, he thought, a little sleepily: his Beckett. The Hunter receded, and it was only Castle who cuddled her into him, dropping little kisses into her hair, lavishing affection on her sweat-sheened body. They were amazing together, he mused foggily. Just…amazing. He’d never want to let her go. Never ever.

Beckett murmured softly, wordlessly in his embrace, and he found that he was desperate to love her, all over again. He restrained himself: he didn’t want her sore or uncomfortable, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pet, or stroke gently, or continue dropping peck-kisses on her head. So he did.

Beckett snuggled up to Castle, completely satisfied. How lucky, she thought, unaware that it wasn’t entirely a _Beckett_ thought, that he was so entirely enamoured of her. And, of course, that he was so experienced and knew how to use all of that experience. He stroked over her side, down to her hip, and she snuggled closer. He wouldn’t be leaving in a hurry, and she was just _fine_ with that. Here, she thought drowsily, was a lot more comfortable than the Greenwood, or the graveyard, though she’d take him there too. He’d come anywhere with her – he had for nine months, after all, so why wouldn’t he follow her now? All man, and all hers: beguiled by her.

She wound her hand into his, bringing it up to her lips and kissing his palm with a tiny flicker of tongue that drew a groan. His other hand tightened on her hip, pulling her back against him. They’d both come, but she had definitely conquered.

Hold on. _Conquered_? That wasn’t Kate Beckett thinking. She didn’t think in terms of _conquering_. It wasn’t a battle. She opened her witchsight, cautiously, and found that their twin marks were – _huh_? Pulsing?

“Castle?” She poked him.

“Ow! Why’d you do that?”

“Open up your witchsight and look at the marks! What have you done?”

“Me? I haven’t done anything – oh. Oh, wow. That’s amazing.” He blinked at her. “They’re beating.” He frowned. “I didn’t do anything – did you?”

“No. But…” She stopped. The sentence unrolling in her head was utterly insane.

“But what?” He opened his eyes as wide as they could go. “C’mon. What are you thinking?”

“It’s not possible.”

“You’re a witch – and La Belle Dame Sans Merci. I’m a warlock, and Herne the Hunter. Nothing’s impossible.” He looked pleadingly at her – and then his face changed. “Oh. I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I think so. And I think this is what you think but you won’t say. I think that I’ve been more of the Hunter, and you’ve been more of the Belle Dame – and I think that though I think I caught you, because that’s what the Hunter _does_ – you think you’ve entrapped me, because that’s what _she_ does. But of course neither of us…has…caught…oh, _shit_.”

“No. No no no _no_. That’s not happening. I’m not _caught_. This is not one of your Hallowe’en hunts.”

“I’m not trapped, either. This isn’t one of your succubus seductions.”

He humphed. Beckett humphed back at him.

“But…” he said hopefully, “we could just carry on. Not-seducing each other. Just…um…having fun together. Fooling around. The marks don’t mean a thing.”

Beckett glared at him. “Even you can’t believe that crock of bullshit. You know it means _something_ , we just don’t know what.”

“Well, mine’s not in time with my pulse. Too fast.”

“Good,” she said crossly. “Mine’s not in time with mine either. Too slow.”

“Then let’s have some more fun. C’mon, Beckett. We’re naked in bed together and it’s been pretty spectacular so far.” He smoothed down her hair, and then ran a finger over a sharp cheekbone to her jaw. “Hasn’t it?” he coaxed.

She smiled, reluctantly. “I guess,” she teased.

“Just guess? I’d better try to convince you completely.” He leaned down to her and kissed her deeply, slowly and enthusiastically. She laughed into the kiss, and then opened to it, and to him.

“I’m convinced,” she said lazily, some time later, cleaned up, dressed again, and curled into the crook of Castle’s arm. “But I still don’t like the way the marks are pulsing.”

“We’re the scariest things around,” Castle pointed out.

“Not the point. We should understand what’s going on. I don’t want to be blindsided.” She opened her othersight again, and examined both marks in detail. Then she frowned, and placed two fingers on her own pulse. She frowned more blackly, and examined her own mark, and then Castle’s, still with fingers on her wrist. “Give me your hand,” she ordered. Castle complied, with a hint of irritation at the snap of her tone, and she put fingers on his wrist in turn. The frown became a pitch-black scowl. “I don’t _believe_ this!” she stormed, and whipped away from him and off the couch. “I _do not believe_ it! What have you _done_?”

“I haven’t done anything – well, nothing that you haven’t done too.”

“This is all your fault, you and your damned Hunter’s mark!”

“You marked me back, and that’s _your_ fault!” Castle yelled back. “And you still haven’t told me what’s wrong!”

“ _My_ mark is pulsing in time with _your_ pulse, and vice-fucking-versa, is what’s _wrong_!”

“What?”

“You heard me, you…you…you _idiot Hunter_! Your mark is beating in time with my pulse and mine is with yours.” She stared out of the window and contemplated screaming with rage, then starting a witch-storm that would wipe out most of Manhattan. Only the knowledge that she could stuff herself with chocolate and vodka instead of killing thousands and wreaking the sort of destruction last seen after Katrina – and it would feel _just as good_ – stopped her, and it took some considerable effort. She’d be spending a fortune on top-quality chocolate to do that.

It really did _not_ help that Castle was sitting there with his mouth slack with shock, utterly dumbfounded and completely _useless_! Damn idiot brainless _Hunter_!

“This is all your fault,” she railed. “If you hadn’t marked me in the first place this wouldn’t have happened. Why did you do it? You didn’t have to mark me at all. You could just have left it alone but no, you had to meddle and interfere and _mark_.” She scowled at him, utterly furious. “Why did you do it?”

“So I could find you again!” Castle shouted. “The Hunter wanted to find you again and you know exactly why! You can’t tell me you didn’t feel just the same. You were just as excited as I was and you know it. So why did _you_ mark me, huh?”

“Because you marked me first! How was I supposed to know why you did it? It’s not like there’s anyone else showing their power in Manhattan, is there? I didn’t even know about you!”

“I didn’t know about you either, and there’s only one outcome – usually – when there’s two powerful supernaturals in one small place. War. I’d rather have this one than one of us be destroyed.” He glared back at her scowl. “Wouldn’t you? And don’t lie because I’ll know if you do.”

“I…no, I don’t want to be destroyed – don’t be dumb! But right now I don’t care if you are!”

“Liar. You do _so_ care. Now you know what it’s like” –

“Now _you_ know what it’s like. You’re the one who tried to find me; you’re the one encouraging me into bed; you’re the one pretending you’re Hunting but actually you just can’t help yourself. This isn’t real. This is you falling into the Belle Dame’s web.”

She stared out of the window. It wasn’t real. It was just…the same as ever it was. He’d been trapped by the Belle Dame, and it was nothing to do with Kate Beckett. He’d caught lovesickness. Just another victim of the supernatural spider inside her. She’d kept one foot out of the door with every other man for a reason – that way, they’d escape. If the moment ever came that she decided that she wanted someone, they had no chance.

Oh, shit. Oh, _fuck_.

She’d wanted the Hunter…and Castle. And here they were, the same person in the same body, and now she’d never know if he had ever really cared or if it was just her magic, forcing him to love her.

She took another step closer to the window, and stared into the dark, shoulders slumped. “Don’t you know the story?” she asked him. “La Belle Dame Sans Merci – by whom so many men were enthralled, withered and died. For love, or so they thought. She doesn’t love, she feeds on others’ love.”

“Don’t _you_ know that the Hunter never fails to catch his prey?” Castle retorted sharply. “He wanted you and he caught you.” He growled, low and dark in his throat. “I didn’t fall into _her_ webs any more than you fell into _his_.” His steps echoed in the space as he stalked towards her. “Do you feel coerced? ‘Cause I sure don’t.” His arms came around her, pulling her back against his chest. “I don’t think you can coerce the Hunter – and since he’s me, you can’t bind me. But I _also_ don’t think that I could catch La Belle Dame and keep her if she didn’t want it – and since she’s you…anyway, what I’m theorising is that they have equal power and therefore can’t coerce the other.” She saw his smile reflected in the windowpane. “So you must have wanted me, and I sure want you…and they wanted each other…so…it’s fated.”

“Fated,” she said sceptically. “Yeah, right.”

“Yes,” Castle purred into her ears. “Fate intervened. How else would we have discovered each other’s, um, _different-ness_? It must have been fate.” He turned her around. “You wouldn’t want to deny the power of fate, would you?”

“That’s superstitious nonsense,” she snipped.

“Lots of people would think that about La Belle Dame and Herne the Hunter,” he pointed out, “and we’re here.” He smiled lazily. “You’re here in my arms, right where we both want you to be.” She muttered darkly, but didn’t disagree. “ _I_ don’t think that anything works on us that we don’t want to work.” She stared at him. “Equal power, so you can’t charm me – supernaturally, that is, you’re doing a great job of charming me normally – and I can’t trap you. Supernaturally. I’ve got you here.” His arms tightened.

“I could slip away any time I liked,” she countered.

“You could – but you don’t want to, or you’d have done it already.” Her answering pout was so ridiculously adorable – though entirely not Beckettian and _certainly_ not Belle Dame-like – that he couldn’t help but kiss the petted lip until it turned into an inviting entrance of which he took full and satisfying advantage. “See?” he said smugly when they finally broke apart, “you didn’t want to.”

“Nor did you,” Beckett replied, equally smugly, and rolled her hips against him. “So instead of slipping away, how about some slipping _into_?”

“I guess I can find something – or someone – more comfortable. Right here,” Castle murmured, which prevented conversation of any meaningful words for quite some time.

***

“Will you be holding court this Hallowe’en?” Castle asked, a year later.

“Will you be hunting?”

“I have to.” The stag’s points flickered above his head.

“So do I.” Her eyes darkened, and the infinite stars shimmered within them.

“But I shall only hunt in one direction.”

“And that would be?” She smiled seductively.

“That depends,” he murmured darkly. “Where might your court be held?”

“That is for me to know, and you to find out, Hunter.”

“A challenge?”

“Say, rather, a quest.”

“A hunt, by another name. So shall it be, milady.”

“And should you find me, then there shall be a prize.”

***

The Wild Hunt howled through the Hallowe’en night, casting for its prey: finally landing on a cold graveyard where, unsurprised, the dead awaited the Hunter and his hounds.

“So, Hunter, you have found me.”

“I have, milady. I claim my prize.”

She extended a white hand to him, watched by the quickened dead and the flaming eyes of the Black Dogs and the Hunter’s steed. “Join me, and when the Dance of the Dead is done, you shall have your prize.”

They danced, until the first stroke of midnight tolled. La Belle Dame dismissed her dead, and this year, the Hunter his horse and hounds.

“My prize,” he said, taking her into his arms, as the tenth stroke rang out.

“Give me your hand.”

He reached out with his left hand, and she smiled, taking it in her right. The final stroke of midnight resounded, and the Hunter and the Belle Dame became Castle and Beckett again, hands still linked.

“You hunt the dead,” Beckett said, “and I claim them. We both know there’s more than just this life. So… _not_ till death do us part, but beyond.” She took his other hand. “Castle, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

**_Fin._ **


End file.
